The Longest of Days
by Cordelia McGonagall
Summary: This one is written for The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competion, Season 3, Round 2 for Puddlemere United. Seventh year Michael Corner let a first year loose after being chained by the Carrows, who find Michael and torture him for his act of kindness and bravery. His best friend, Terry Boot, comes to the hospital wing to comfort him and tell him of a plan to hide.


**Author notes: This was written for the QLFC, round two for Puddlemere United. My requirement as Chaser 2 is to write about a Ravenclaw friendship. My prompts are the phrase "It had been a very long day," the word "derivative," and the phrase "a piece of cake." The story is 1340 words.**

**As always, full credit goes to J.K. Rowling for her work, and I was aided in the conjuring of the names of spells and ingredients in potions on this one by the Harry Potter wikia and the people at EA who created the Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince video game, which is credited on the site. I've never played it, but thanks.**

The Longest of Days

_It had been a very long day_, thought Michael. He laughed, giddy from the pain potions, he had to imagine. One bark of drugged laughter triggered a wet cough. He grabbed clumsily for the kidney-shaped basin at his bedside and spat out a mouthful of blood. He should be scared by that, he mused, but the part of his brain that would feel fear was dull and languid from the spells and potions Madam Pomfrey had infused him with. He'd been conscious the whole time. He saw her hands were shaking.

That should have scared him, too; he realized now. It had been a very long day. Before this, it had been enough. They had Dark Arts today with the Slytherins, which was always tense; Michael and his fellow Ravenclaws matching wits with the more bloodthirsty of the Slytherins. Some of those in green and silver recoiled at the violence, yet Michael Corner and Terry Boot still spent each class with their hands shading their mouths, softly murmuring protective charms. His head had hurt long before now.

Michael dragged his pain-scattered thoughts back to what a very long day used to mean. Once, he remembered, it had meant inches of parchment, carefully composed, or Arithmancy after lunch, when his quick mind was slowest. But there had been longer ones. There was a day, his first year, when his face flamed hot in panic as he stood at his common room door for an hour, barred by his failure to solve a simple riddle.

Michael grunted as a sharp needle of pain shot down his left arm. He closed his eyes and retreated into memory. Ginny Weasley, now there was a girl who'd given him days that spoiled before he could consume them. Ginevra, glowing hair and soft pink mouth, spitting the ugly truth at him about his will, his need, to win at everything. He had thought he was in love with her, and there was a day last spring that had been his longest yet, when he saw her folded into Harry Potter, by the lake. Michael and lovely, clever Cho had snogged until they were breathless that afternoon, Cho's eyes open, looking to see if Potter was watching.

A wave of nausea rolled over him. He was awake enough to be embarrassed as he vomited on his bedding, his muscles too heavy to reach for the basin any longer.

Madam Pomfrey's skirts swirled as she flew over to him, wiping him clean gently by hand, levitating him to the fresh bed beside him, her eyes glistening. The evaporating dampness on his bare chest made him shiver. He choked out a "Sorry." Pomfrey cooed to him, softly. The tenderness startled him. Michael thought of his mother, tears burning in his eyes.

He thought of Albion Audley's mother. He squeezed his eyes shut in a wave of pain-induced prayer. When he set the first year loose from the chains, he sent him stumbling toward Hogsmeade. _"Run to the Hog's Head. Ask for Aberforth. Speak to no one else! Go!"_ Michael had no idea if he'd sent the boy to his parents or to his death. He'd only read The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore over the summer. He remembered that D.A. meeting, scanning the disheveled barman, noting the blue eyes. Like Dumbledore's. Michael Corner was always connecting the points. This was a match he needed to win.

The Carrows had found Michael out. _How two humans that stupid could get anything sorted was a mystery_, he thought. Someone must have seen. Now his fury mingled with his pain. He tensed his abdomen for another wave of sick, his breath shallow gasps.

Terry Boot rushed to his bed in long, angry strides. His face looked wooden; Michael didn't remember Terry looking so old. His tie was practically undone and his shirt had come untucked in front. His voice was higher than usual and shaking. "What have they done to you? God, Michael! What have they done?" Terry took in his visible wounds, and Michael could see the fear in his face.

"Oh," Michael gasped, "you've had a taste of their work, Boot." Terry's brow furrowed deeper at his friend's weak bravado.

Terry was pale, his mouth slack. He put out a hand to touch his friend and thought better of it, running his hands through his own hair instead. "A Full Body-Bind and a Ventus down the stairs for mouthing off, Michael," he murmured. "I was sorted in a weekend. What did they do to you?"

Michael's mind shifted to the list of spells Pomfrey recited as she'd scribbled angrily at his bed. His mind cleared, a little. It felt like reading his old Defense book. His eyes pointed to the foot of his bed. "Chart there. Knockback Jinxes. Levicorpus. Stinging, Stretching Jixes...Crucio." He imagined he was reciting the list to Lupin. _Twenty points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Corner!_

"She's charting now?" Terry flipped through the parchment on the clipboard, his pale face greying.

Michael felt his body floating, but his mind was oddly collected. He felt in his element now. "There are more of us here. Documenting? For after?"

Terry hooked the chart back on the bed and pulled a chair close. He tentatively laid a hand on Michael's foot. When he didn't flinch, Terry left it there.

"Merlin," Terry growled. "Hope the Wizengamot sees that, one day. And acts."

Michael blinked at him. "What d'I miss'n Potions?" His voice sounded slurry, but his mind felt clear. His face wrinkled in annoyance. He concentrated harder.

Terry looked at his friend blankly, then smiled softly and gently rubbed his foot. "Don't worry, you cocky prat. You are still first in there."

Michael raised his eyebrows.

"You can't be serious..." Terry sighed. "Okay. Volubilis Potion. Honeywater. Syrup of Hellebore. Derivative of Mandrake...It was a piece of cake."

"Derivative lesson. Snape did that first. Brilliant." Michael whispered.

Terry smirked through his lips, which were curled in, anxiously being worked by his teeth. "Snape's an arse, Michael," he muttered.

"Yes." Michael let out a ragged breath through a sickly grin.

Terry watched his friend fade. He gathered himself. "Listen, Michael, we have to get you better and get you out of the Carrows' way. I talked to Neville today, behind the greenhouses. Listen!" Terry grabbed Michael's ankle, making his eyes flick wide in pain. His friend grimaced with him, but kept a lighter hold on his leg, and leaned in close. "I am not leaving you. You are going first. When you are released, if you don't see me, don't look for me. Go straight to the seventh floor. The left corridor, with the tapestry. Walk past it three times. Tell it you need to get to a safe place where you can find Neville." Terry's voice began to shake. "You won't make it if they do this to you again, Michael. Tell no one else! I will come after. I'll find the ones who are ready to go. I'll them how."

Terry searched his friend's face to find what he was looking for - the familiar reflection of his fellow Ravenclaw picking words apart, sorting them, then filing them away for future reference. Michael's last grasp at lucidity left him grunting in agony. He nodded. "Seventh floor. Yes."

Terry nodded, grimly. "I'll come back. Not too much. We need to avoid more suspicion. I want to bring others after you, and we need to protect the hidden." He was torn; his legs twisted to leave, to protect the plan, his torso leaning protectively over his first friend at Hogwarts.

Madam Pomfrey swept in with a blanket. She leaned in and put a cool hand on Michael's forehead and one on Terry's shoulder, affirming his place. She wrapped the blanket around Terry, and he sank into it, relieved to have it decided for him, by an adult who wasn't mad. He turned his whole body toward Michael, and settled into the chair for the night.


End file.
